"But, you lost weight, right?" Our sick relationship with stomach sickness

A few weeks ago, while sitting in the Buenos Aires airport waiting for my flight to board, I experienced a strange, sharp pain in my lower abdomen. Ten minutes later, I was sweating, clutching my stomach, and wishing for death--it felt like someone had taken a blender to my insides. Alone and in full crisis mode, I managed to track down some Argentinean Imodium and $15 worth of bottled water, but was told I had to empty all liquids before getting on the plane. (My desperate pleas of "Por favor, estoy muy enferma," did not help a bit.) I had 11 hours of flying time ahead of me.

Back at home, things only got worse. I'll spare you the gross details, but, for a week, I subsisted entirely on yogurt shakes and brown rice. This was the most my stomach would agree to and, still, I was walking around like I'd been punched in the gut with a brick. So, I went to the doctor, and then I went to another doctor. A few extra-violating tests later, and I found out I'd ingested some kind of intestinal parasite, most likely during my travels, and that this parasite was wreaking havoc on my digestive system. Two types of antibiotics were prescribed, picked up, and taken. The side effects of these pills were not fun--I felt nauseous and gaggy every time I took them, to the point where I started wondering if I was pregnant on top of the whole parasite mess. Ten days of strong antibiotics gave me major acid reflux, I couldn't have a drink for almost a month, eating is still an unpleasant experience, and I am just waiting patiently (and sometimes not so) for my body to heal. This bug sucked.

Now, let me tell you the reaction almost everyone in my life had to this illness. With the exception of my grandmother, any person I talked to said (with a near-giddy timbre) some version of: "Think of all the weight you're going to lose!" or "Let's look on the bright side, you're going to be sooo skinny!"

The true, demented fact is we equate stomach ills with a kind of extreme, forced-upon-us diet, as the only time we'll finally have the discipline to shed those last 5 pounds. Think of Emily Blunt's character in the "Devil Wears Prada" claiming "I'm just one stomach flu away from my goal weight." Or actresses who walk the red carpet and mention gratitude for a recent sickness because it helped them fit into a skintight gown. Honestly, during my weeks of painful, non-eating h-e-l-l, I couldn't help thinking that this experience was going to make me skinnier than I'd been in years. And these thoughts were exhilarating and filled with pure joy. It's completely messed up.

As sad as this sounds, the stomach-bug-as-surrogate-diet ideology may just be a form of self-correction and protection. Illness makes us feel powerless, weak and out-of-control; while being lean and reaching a long-desired weight-loss goal is empowering. I'm not saying this is healthy, nor that one won't gain the weight back the first time one is able to eat a French fry, but somehow, emotionally, the two seem to balance each other out.